Sapphic Voices General Fiction

Blood

Barbara poured herself another glass of Vodka and drained it in one gulp, then held her breath as not to intensify the ugly taste and the burning the liquor caused in her throat. At least this was better than other hard stuff she might have considered - `Vodka' was meant to be a diminutive form of water. Oh well. At least it did not promise life.

She waited for more numbness to spread through her body, and especially through her mind. She was not there yet, but on her way definitely.

She turned off the radio. This moment called for silence. She considered the knife. She had cut herself before, but that had been different, had been more of an adrenaline kick that almost compensated for the feeling of depression that always set in after such a session. If anybody thought it odd that she wore long sleeved blouses even in the midst of summer, so be it; at least it was an oddity of her own choice.

She glanced at the single frame that adorned the wall. It was a beautiful frame, with a thin scarlet line on the border that gave way to a deep indigo towards the glass pane, and you could barely discern little silver specks like stars in a late evening sky. The frame was not empty, instead it was full of pictures it did not display. A photograph of her parents was among those. Her mother, the mouse, the hushed mouse. Just perfect for her father, the dog. Did dogs hunt mice? Well, this one did. Going after everything smaller than he was, embarrassingly obedient to anyone he perceived to be stronger, like his boss, or his would-be peers. Rules set by those were like a leash on him. Then he tried his minor leashes on who he thought he could get away with. He'd never have walked a staircase without rails.

Did he have a fit when she made it known that she was no longer attending mass on Sunday! What was she hoping to accomplish? They were going to be the talk of the neighbourhood! The disgrace! She had been afraid that he might actually beat her, perhaps he would have, but for mother's presence, who had just sat in the back of the living room, dabbing at her eyes. But she had not taken her side, being more taken aback by the conflict than her daughter's trouble.

Of course, her allowance was suspended until she complied. It was never reinstated, because she had set her mind. Instead, she got a job delivering ladies' journals and collecting the monthly fees for them. Her father was frothing, but there was nothing he could do about it. She realized that she had slipped out from under some of the parental control.

Her classmates were divided over her earning her own money. A few of them thought it pretty cool, others sneered at her, there was obviously something wrong with her. Who had ever heard of parents not providing a daughter with money to spend? Wasn't this even supposed to be educational? Eventually the others prevailed. It might have had to do with it being more attractive to meet mates to spend their pocket money than being told "Yes, but first I must. . . "

Her father never forgave her for her act of independence. The constant mood of not being welcome to what should have been home kept her away from her parent's house as much as possible.

"Well, I have my own place now," she thought bitterly. Every human has a place, though she may not know it. It might be right around the next corner, or halfway across the world. Barbara knew her place, she was looking at it. She replenished her drink.

There are those who have a fond remembrance of their first amorous adventures, but this was another picture not to grace the frame. She had been to the cinema, herself, a `girlfriend', and two boys from the neighbourhood. Yes, they had had a little too much to drink, but her euphoria had rapidly vanished when she felt herself pinned down to the rear seat. Her friend had called her a spoilsport, and taken her partner into the park, leaving Barb at the mercy of the other male.

She went to her doctor without telling her parents and explained the situation to her, offering to pay her privately. The doctor would have nothing of that (the payment, that is), and after careful examination concluded her to be physically in the clear. Waiting for her next menstruation was agony, but it came (a little delayed by the shock she had suffered), so she had not been fertile on the day she wanted to forget as soon as possible. Her doctor suggested psychological treatment, and, before all, that she ought to go to the police. But she would have none of that. Even seeing the doctor had taken all the discipline she could muster.

A grant enabled her to take up studies. Together with occasional jobs on the side there was even enough money for renting a small apartment.

She got along well with her fellow students, for the first time in an environment where original thought was valued rather than eyed with suspicion. She became part of a community that shared knowledge, ideas, wine, and places to go to and to sleep at. They lived a very liberal life, including swapping partners, which was fine for a while. The only trouble was with fellows belonging to the community but with a partner who was not part of it. These outsiders were mostly ignored, but when they hit the collective radar, were considered as some kind of threat that could possibly cause a conflict of dedication.

When she tried to mediate such a conflict she herself became accused of spreading alienation. During a brief, but painful episode she learned the inner mechanics of the functioning of social groups. A long time ago she had decided not to genuflect, and she was not going back on that decision. Deeply dismayed, she withdrew from what she had considered her turf.

A mild economic depression had graduated engineers compete for such challenging jobs as taxi driver, or pizza courier. She noticed, because jobs for unskilled personnel became ever scarcer, and the cost of living took big bites out of what she'd been able put aside. So, get through with degrees, and hope for better times? She shook her head, and decided to get along as long as her savings lasted, then take her leave. She settled into a series of friendly, if melancholy, good-byes: the fresh smell of vegetables at a market, performances of street musicians, children's squeals of laughter when they got all wet playing around a fountain. "Got no deeds to do, no promises to keep". Some call it freedom.

She spent her very last money on a present to leave to someone she thought of as a friend, Fabienne, the only person she still felt comfortable around. With her, she could enjoy and share silence. She regretted not being able to apologise for the discomfort she could not help causing her, but what was she to do about that? Still, it made her uneasy that there was someone who might shed tears because of her.

Slowly, her thoughts returned to the present. The vodka had numbed her considerably. She lurched over to the bathroom and lay down in the tub.

She put the blade against her left wrist, right over where she could see her pulse, then, with clenched teeth, cut as deep as she could. SHSSSHHHH, this hurt more than she had anticipated. Blood welled forth, but it did not squirt - she had not hit the artery. In despair, she applied a few more cuts, which did not really hurt that much, but she was sickened to have to put the blade into the open wound and dig deeper. Finally, she was rewarded with bright red squirts about four inches long, half as thick as a pencil. She watched, panting. So this was what it felt like. Shouldn't she feel more contented, now that her escape was so near at hand? Yet she didn't, she was too exhausted to indulge in emotions.

Presently she got dizzy, and felt waves of heat going through her. She had read about this, this was her blood circulation collapsing. Not long now. When black crept in on her peripheral vision, she closed her eyes, let her head rest against the rim of the tub, and waited for oblivion.

When she came to, she was shivering violently. Stupefied, she looked at her slashed wrist, saw that it had stopped bleeding completely. Without comprehension she reached out for a towel to wrap around it, then tried to get up out of the tub. She pushed herself up, but lost consciousness so fast that she did not even feel her body slam on the bathroom floor.

The next time round there was a splitting headache to accompany the shivering which seemed to have settled in for good. She found out that she could move on all fours, even though she had to pause every couple of yards. It also seemed to help to let her head hang down, rather than trying to defeat gravity. She crawled all the way to her bed, but could not make it onto it. Instead, she got hold of the cover and pulled it towards her, huddled into it and fell into a fitful sleep. The telephone seemed to ring a few times, but she was not certain. It might have been imagination.

She awoke to the sound of her door bell. "Go away," she muttered, not feeling able to get up. After several attempts, her visitor seemed to give up, and there was blessed silence again. Until she heard a key in her door lock. Fabienne?

Fabienne came in, cautiously calling "'ello? 'ello, Barb?". Having caught sight of her she hurried over. "Nom de dieu! Qui a fait. . . 'oo did that to you? You look like death!" She hurried to the bathroom to get a damp towel for Barbara's battered face. Barbara tried to shout a No, but her voice would not cooperate. She heard Fabienne exhale explosively, then taking rapid steps back to her. She started shivering again. "Listen, I not can possibly let you lie there on the ground. 'old onto me, we shall see if we can get you into your bed, okay?" Together, they managed. Fabienne winced when she saw Barbara's left wrist, but only asked where she kept bandages.

At the slight shaking of Barbara's head she said, "I shall be gone for a short while," and, trying to smile with little success, "not do go away. I shall be right back!" Barbara coughed in lieu of sobbing.

When she awoke again, she found her wrist competently dressed. As soon as Fabienne became aware of her being conscious again, she approached the bed, offering a bowl of beef broth. "Not do speak now. Drink this, instead. You need to gather some strength."

Barbara briefly wondered why her eyes felt so sore. Then she surrendered herself to Fabienne's care. She lifted out of her cushions, trying to reach out to her friend, but immediately sank back unconscious. Fabienne sighed and placed her palm on Barbara's forehead.

If you have enjoyed Joan Arling's "Blood", then please be certain to e-mail her at  jarling[at]visualserver.org  and thank her for posting this Story.

Click here for a list of all of Joan Arling's  Stories and Poetry at  Sapphic Voices Authoresses.

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